True Grit
by StillHaddicted
Summary: Season 6, post Huddy break-up. Dealing with the aftermath of the break-up, House seeks comfort in his medical skills. But one case will put him to the test
1. Chapter 1

_We had some good time with "Snake and ladders"; however, I have a thing for drama, and after the Huddy breakup win the show I wasn't in a good mood. This 3 part story was one of my attempt to cope with it._

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><p>1<p>

He dragged himself down the hallway to the door, barely aware of his feet moving because his half-asleep brain couldn't accept it, completely in denial. In his world that was bad, people were not supposed to answer a ringing bell in the middle of the night… Damn, people were not supposed to be outside any door ringing bells in the middle of night!

His mind cleared up at every step, enough to make him realize he shouldn't have opened the door, and even more certain about who might have been his ringing host. Grumbling to himself, he finally reached the door and checked the peephole, just out of habit, then sighed and opened the door.

"You rang the wrong bell," Foreman said straightforwardly to his boss, standing outside of the door. "I'm not Wilson."

"Good, because he wouldn't let me do this," House huffed, so serious that it was impossible for the neurologist to detach any trace of sarcasm. "He'd waste a lot of time looking for a deeper explanation that doesn't exist."

"And you think I'll enable you to do something which is clearly insane, according to your premise?" Foreman questioned him with a mocking voice, then smirked and started to close the door. "Goodnight House."

"You," House cut him off, swinging his open palm on the closing door to block it, staring intensely at the younger man. "You have to listen to me…you want to, because you know I'm here to save our patient."

Truth was, House's clarification wasn't needed after all.

It had been a month, more or less, since the mother of all break ups. Which, however hadn't affected them all the way they had expected. Oh, House was a mess and back on drugs, and when it came to involve Cuddy in their cases it was up to one of them pay her a visit. Something they tried to do the less they could, to avoid any kind of embarrassing situation. After all things could have been worse, Foreman was well aware of that. As he studied his boss standing in front of him, feeling the steady and consistent pressure of his hand on the door, seeing the determination in his tired eyes and the hard lines of his face, something told him if he didn't want to cut the thin line that was still holding the man together he should have let House in and pay some real attention to what he had to say.

* * *

><p><strong>Earlier that day<strong>

"I'm sorry I left, so sorry. I shouldn't have…I've always thought that was my route to follow, the one thing that mattered-"

"Shhh…shut up," she said placing one hand on his mouth, keeping there his sobs and tearing ranting. "It doesn't matter now, it doesn't matter anymore…we're here," she said again, almost crying too and touching his rough cheek with her hand, smiling in between her tears. "We are together."

With that last line, words became inaudible, nothing but a confused series of muffled sounds suffocated in the spontaneous and transporting hug the three melted in together. Abandoned wife and never known daughters tossed aside years of hate and resentment, ungrateful husband and coward father got rid of his own hardness and stubborn selfishness, leaning on the pure sense of survival once his humanity had finally being forced to face the inevitable corruptibility.

Once again, impelling death had shuffled the cards on someone's table, changing priorities. A life spent travelling all over the country, chasing the cowboy lifestyle dream, leaving family behind, all of sudden wasn't worthy anymore. They've seen that happen before, being about to die did that to people more than anyone would say, value things from different perspectives. And, usually, have them go back to square one in the blink of an eye.

"That is so fake," Taub muttered in a low voice, absently shaking his head as he watched the scene in the patient's room. "Such an artificial repentance."

"Nobody wants to die alone," Foreman observed then, apparently untouched by the heart breaking family reunion. "It's human…and also hypocrite."

"He asked us to call his family only when he found out there is no hope," Chase added, a deep but also resigned disappointment in his voice as he looked at the younger woman hugging the dying father she knew nothing about. "I wonder what he'd done if one of them would have been a suitable donor."

"He would have been fine and reconciled with his family to live the life he always refused."

Masters stated then, immediately feeling her co-workers' eyes sceptically weight in her. She stubbornly sustained their stares for a while, her eyes still fixes on the reunited family, but then she had to bit at her bottom lip and caved, blurting out annoyed.

"Ok, maybe he would have just gone back to his life-"

"He's lucky."

The team looked up above their heads at the same time, ready to see a dark lightening sky instead of the hospital ceiling. Because House was there with them, first of all, closely watching the teary family meeting, something he usually avoided like a plague. Most importantly, because he had followed the whole case from the front seat. The patient was indeed fascinating; the old man, who could have easily applied as a John Wayne's look alike and killed the competition, had travelled all over the country doing old Wild West show, pretending to be a rough and cold heart lonely ranger. He probably was, or at least he had been until he had ended up there with a death sentence diagnosis. His only pale and weak way out, was a bone marrow transplant within 24 hours. There was no match for him, not good enough given his previous conditions, and thank to his smoking history getting the approval would have been hard anyway. It would have required an energy and stubbornness House could easily deliver, but in the past weeks, despite working like a lunatic, he'd been far from showing his usual scheming moves in order to get what he wanted for his patients. Moreover, even with House in full mastiff mood, accomplish the task seemed almost impossible.

Eventually, the patient had caved. He had realized his Stetson was out of place and his spurs needed to be tossed aside, and that for his final ride he might have needed not an old nag, but the two women he had kept out his life.

That was why, when House voiced out his comment about the patient, they all waited for him to add their patient was a lucky son of a bitch. Because his wife and daughter were too stupid to see he didn't deserve their forgiveness, because his screaming in the point of death had at least provided him a not lonely departure. House had been involved in the case, in the patient more than just in the differential, and they've all seen how invested he was. Why he had been, was still a mystery: the case itself wasn't one that could push his mind beyond limits, but since after the break up House hadn't been that selective with his patients. Whatever happened outside the hospital, if and how many Vicodin he took, how much he drunk or if he spent the nights dwelling on his pain, was something they didn't know. They knew he was in pain, constantly rubbing his leg and grinding his teeth, but he didn't seem as depressed as they've expected. In addition, they knew better to treat him as if they didn't see even the smallest signs of discomfort.

But then again, they were unable to hide their shock when he spoke again.

"At least he won't die alone," House muttered in a low voice, so low Foreman was sure his boss wasn't aware he had said that out loud. "It mush hard, to realize that-"

Puzzled and speechless, Foreman looked at his boss who, watching the reunited family almost mesmerized. House then swallowed a Vicodin straight from the bottle and took off, leaving the neurologist with a bunch of syllables trapped in his mouth. He watched House leave and looked back at his colleagues, who gave him the same puzzled gaze, confused by their boss's statement and slightly worried. Sadly, worry for House required a strength and knowledge none of them had, and they silently spread away leaving the family some privacy.

Limping heavily, House made his way to his office sinking himself in the darkness of the conference room, standing in front of the whiteboard. It was a mess up there: it had taken them three days of intense work, 72 hours in which he'd never left the hospital. He had spent hours on the phone, tracking every halt of his patient's show tour to fine any possible link with syndromes and diseases matching the symptoms, but none of them had been useful. They found a diagnosis, all right…but diagnosis didn't mean cure, it didn't mean a life saved, not another notch for him.

Nothing but another failure.

Rubbing his right leg with one hand, House grumbled a silent menace to the whiteboard, close to throw it out of the window. Then he realized he had no strength for that. If he had some, and he felt he did, he was bound to give it to that guy. The man had made his mistakes, he had changed his priorities; "TO have what you want doesn't matter when there's nobody to share it with", the guy had said to House when he had showed up to tell him he was about to die. Their short conversation had triggered something, and House didn't feel like denying it to himself. The man was right, and for the first time, seeing a patient revaluing his life showed him there might have been something good in that, if people kept falling in that trap repeatedly.

He sat on the chair behind the desk and switched on the table lamp, the only light he could stand, then poured himself a generous glass of bourbon and gulped down a Vicodin with it. He threw his head back and swallowed, pushing liquid and pill down then went back to the desk and opened the folder.

* * *

><p><strong>Back to the present<strong>

Instead of speaking, what House did straightaway was to show him. Eager, he took off his jacket and Foreman realized he was wearing just his t-shirt, and he couldn't fail to see the bloody and swelling spot on his forearm pinched by the needle. Panicking all of sudden, the neurologist looked up at his boss. Thousands of words, insults mainly, came to his mouth along with the fierce intention to call Wilson straightaway, but then with a huge relief mixed with confusion House rolled his eyes and grumbled.

"You're an idiot," he said angrily, taking one limping step toward him. "I can get high on Vicodin for free, why should I spend money on heroine?"

Foreman frowned, thinking that wasn't the question running in his mind, then blinked a couple of times and finally realized what the real question should have been.

"Why are you here House?"

"I match," he answered quickly, eager to go on not to let his fellow try to change his mind. "I tested my bone marrow, I'm 6 on 6 match with the patient. I can donate him my marrow, we won't need any permission other than his and mine, and he's going to be fine-"

"Why-how in hell did you end up testing your marrow?" Foreman squealed.

"We can save him," the boss cut him off, ignoring Foreman's indeed valid question. "He'll have 90% change to live another 20 years, we can-" He stopped, biting at his bottom lip to hold himself as he realized how alive he felt in that moment, how easy it was for him to lose control of his words and actions. If he wanted Foreman to see his point, he couldn't let emotionality get in the way. "It's all safe, un-risky procedure. We just need a couple a signatures, an O.R and a surgeon and we'll get this done," he paused again, this time hoping Foreman could see the evident win-win situation, growing frustrated when he didn't. "C'mon Foreman, we can save the guy, what is your problem!"

"Question is, what is your problem. House," the neurologist said, confident, stepping so close he could see the thin lines of blood in his dilated pupils. "How many Vicodin have you-"

"For God's sake, I've worked stoned for year, don't give me this crap!" House roared, leaning heavily on the cane as he faced Foreman, even more closely. "It's not even a risky procedure, it's not illegal. This isn't the most insane thing I've ever done…"

"No, it's not," Foreman granted him. "But it's the first one you do after Cuddy dumped you, and I need to know where this comes from."

It was House's turn to be puzzled and speechless. He pulled slightly away from Foreman and his eyes darted around quickly, his throat dry itching for a Vicodin or a drink. However, he soon recovered, he swallowed down and straightened up smirking at him with creepy smile.

"Thought you said you were not Wilson-"

"I won't buy your deflection House, and I won't enable you without fighting."

"You fight me, a man dies," House clarified, glaring at him. "You do the math."

"I just need to understand why you're doing this, why now. We've had thousands of patients, and you did stupid things to yourself to get the answers we needed. You hurt yourself intentionally to prove you were right, you showed you have a martyr complex and you're ready to risk your life," Foreman stopped, his eyes studying his boss face. "But this, what you want to do now is un-risky, non-unethical and doesn't involve you getting sick or potentially dying. You've never thought of yourself as the key this way, you never took your time to even thing about test yourself out of generosity-"

"I don't want to lose another patient. Not this one," House hissed then, finally giving in with the staring contest with Foreman and pulled back, pacing the space around like a caged animal. "He deserves an opportunity, and as it happens I can give him one."

"Since when do you believe in coincidences?" Foreman snorted sarcastically, then felt his boss's discomfort grow and stepped forward, pressing him. "Why this guy? Why is he so important to you?"

"He's not. He's just a life I can safe, and I want that life."

"And what about the next one? Next time we'll have a patient needing a kidney, you'll give him yours not to lose another life?"

"Aren't you supposed to be more human than me?" House snarled with a grunt, grabbing his jacket and fishing in the pocket for the Vicodin bottle. "Seriously, why do you have to give me and hard time about this?"

"Why did you come to me?" The neurologist asked, suddenly feeling sorry for Wilson. "You're right, after all this isn't risky nor dangerous, miles away from what you could have usually done. But I need to know why this is imp-"

"I need to save this one. I need to save them all!" House finally exploded, screaming right in his face and tossing his jacket on the ground. "I can't afford to lose this patient, I can't afford lose any other patient, not anymore!"

House had punched people in the past, sometimes out of rage or to prove a point, but there was no doubt he could use physical violence. Once Foreman saw him deflate like a balloon and crash down on the couch, he realized his moment to get a taste of his boss's punches had come close for him too. Puzzled, feeling extremely unease when he saw how lost House was, Foreman gulped down and kept his mouth shut. The thought his boss might be thinking cure people was the only thing worth living for snuck in his mind, travelling from his brain to his mouth, bitter taste of pity was left as he finally said.

"Ok."


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for all the reviews, I like to reply to everybody but I can't to the guest: but I read them and they're very much appreciated._

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><p>2<p>

He seized the grip on the grasp of the driver, strong and steady, trying to remember the last time he had been standing on a teeing area, staring at the fairway. He gave up soon and wedged his hands on the club again, then lifted it up as a baseball bat and swung it in the air a couple of times, as if he was looking for the right swing. Then, he realized, what he was lacking was just a target.

Limping heavily he went straight to the kitchen, pointing at pots and pans. Probably he wouldn't have break them, but the noise would have given him satisfaction. And even if the movement sent a wave of pain down his right leg, the shot of adrenaline smashing something with no restrains gave him worked effectively. Pans flew in the room, one ended up on the kitchen window and cracked the glass, then he smashed the driver on the empty bottles lined up on the table, crashing some of them in a coloured and stinging explosion as some small sharps scratched his hands and forearms. Panting and breathing ravenously for the effort, he stopped in the middle of the room, looking at his bare feet dangerously y surrounded by shattered glass. Then, with the corner of his eyes, he caught the image of the cracked window and a sudden frustration grew inside him. Unable to sustain the view of yet another unfinished thing in his life, he grabbed the first thing he could, the heavy and solid wood knives stock on the counter, and threw it against the window, overwhelmed but the sound as the object impacted on the window breaking the glass for good.

Satisfied, House stared at the cracked window, panting and trying to catchhis breath. He stopped and listened to the pumping pace of his heart and the heavy sound of his short breath, until he felt it: the stinging pain of a glass sharp sunk in his left foot, and the feeling travelled to his brain, clearing the numb fog wrapping his mind and revealing the shiny and ugly truth.

A mess, what he had done was nothing but a useless dead-end mess.

Again.

The light pain in his foot was a blissful distraction, compared to the major one all over him. His leg, his heart, his back still sore after the marrow sample, his head and stomach upset due to the alcohol. And, of course, the aching guilt and disgust he tasted every time he swallowed a pill. He closed his eyes and breathed, his hands itching to lay on something else to break, while his brain was trying to convince him it would have been useless. And he couldn't tell how long after his breakdown the knock on the door came.

_Let it go!_ His mind quickly warned him as he looked in the door's direction, his nostrils widening as if he could smell the unwanted visitor. _You want to be alone, you need to be on your own and take care of your misery. You don't want other people, you don't need them, you're better off alone._

The first step he took on the broken glasses cut the flow of his thoughts, thoughts he had come to hate quickly. Although, he didn't try to fool himself with the idea he could get rid of them, pain could be good for something… Limping through the kitchen like a zombie, he dragged himself to the door where the knocking hadn't stopped. There was only one person who could so stubbornly hate his front door, and although he didn't want to deal with him in that moment, he knew he should have tossed him some crumbs or he would have never left him alone.

A strategy that proved to be useless, when he opened the door and instead of Foreman he found Cuddy.

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><p><strong>Earlier that morning<strong>

"How are you feeling?" Foreman asked him as he stepped inside the office, snorting when he saw his boss sitting on the long chair. "You should be resting."

"I got a needle stuck inside me, it's a sore spot no matter where I sit," House retorted immediately, but he couldn't hide a grimace as he maneuverer with one hand behind him, emerging with an ice pack. "And I'm not tired, therefore I don't need to rest. And sure I don't need you to check on me."

"Yes, of course. You don't need anything, I get it," the neurologist huffed rolling his eyes, but it was clear he had no intention to let it go. "We did what you wanted, how you wanted, patient is fine. I'm not here to dig in your motives, House. I just want to know if you're ok."

"Of course I'm not ok, but thanks for asking," he blurted, popping a Vicodin in his mouth and holding the small bottle up to his face in a toasting gesture to his fellow. "And as long as I have this I don't need anything else."

"Sure, like you haven't lived well without it for more than one year," Foreman muttered, more to perform an act than to hide his statement to his boss. "Now what?" He asked then.

"Now," House huffed, slowly standing up leaning heavily on his cane. "I'm going to take this cripple ass home, park it on the couch and get drunk to pollute whatever is left of my body fluids since they're not needed anymore."

"Sounds like a plan," Foreman observed, taking advantage of the fact House wasn't looking at him to watch his boss lug himself to the desk with a worried expression and added. "You want to add videogames to the list?"

Slowly, but still enough intimidating, House turned around. He straightened up and gave his fellow a questioning gaze, which quickly faded into a mix of regret and shy, very shy, gratitude. Foreman had never seen that gaze, but he knew for sure Wilson had witnessed it a couple of times. And, before House spoke again, he made a mental note to himself to ask the oncologist how one was supposed to react.

"Don't ruin it," House said to him, almost a beg before the more familiar crankiness emerged in his voice. "You're doing well so far, don't push it. Don't ruin it all."

Message was clear, and Foreman couldn't tell it was unexpected. He had tiptoed around House since he had showed up to his place offering his marrow to their patient, feeling like he owned the man some though love and not just simple enabling. He had to get him through that, but not carry him along, and he had soon found out that task wasn't easy at all. He had also realized House needed someone, and that he deserved someone looking after him. However, House himself didn't know it yet, and he wasn't ready for it. Left alone with his very own epiphany, and the consolation he had at least tried, Foreman just nodded to his boss and walked out of the room, carrying whatever thought away with himself.

Glad to be alone again, House threw the ice pack in the bin and grabbed his jacket, packing his stuff ready to go home. He wasn't technically off the clock yet, but he needed to go home and get some rest despite what he had told to Foreman. And he doubted someone was keeping track of his working schedule. Not that he would have cared anyway, he had done what he wanted, what he felt like doing to save his patient and he had made it, another life saved. The rest didn't matter to him, under the light of his success even the glimpse of self-commiseration he had let Foreman see didn't matter. Besides, Foreman could get his need to save patients more than anybody else.

However, he couldn't know how bad he needed that, that last win more than anything else. There wasn't just his pride as doctor on the line, if he'd been honest with himself he could have admitted it mattered only to him after all… He needed that to know there was still something he could do. Not so long ago, he had confessed he could live with being less of a good doctor, if he could have love and happiness in return. And now that he had nothing, not being the best doctor wasn't an option anymore. A sad smile came up to his face as he realized that, while picking up his stuff and heading out, he needed to think positive for once. To believe the jerk he had just saved, literally, had now a long and satisfying future ahead with his family ready to love him, forgive and forget what he had done to them. It was that insane hope that had drove him till the point to step up and donate his marrow, out of the prospect to contribute to someone else's life improvement, and he felt like he could easily rely on that. Patient was fine, transplant had gone well and, once he had woken up, his daughter and wife had been there with him to welcome him in the first day of his new life.

He'd been there too, thanks to Foreman silent and question-less collaboration. House had been there, watching his patient realize what he had missed all those years, and be grateful for what was about to come. For the first time he had felt like he had treated not just a disease, but a patient for real.

The elevator dropped him on the ground floor, as he stepped near the desk to sign himself out he managed not to look in her office's direction, as he had imposed himself not to do anymore in the past weeks, fighting back the dangerous temptation. He did what he had to and passed the paper to the nurse, barely registering her disappointed glare as he swallowed another pill before heading to the door. However, halfway to the exit he heard Foreman's voice calling him from the stairs. Disappointed and grumbling between his teeth, House stopped on track. He turned around, ready to tell his fellow he should have really dropped it, but as the neurologist approached, he could see his serious face.

And House immediately thought whatever he had to say, was way worse than a night out offer out of pity.

"The patient is gone," Foreman said, his voice trembling knowing that wasn't good news for him. "His wife just came asking if we moved him… The locker in his room is empty, he took his stuff and left without saying anything. We're trying to find out how long ago…House!" The neurologist called seeing his boss gave him his back, and resolute his limp out of the building. "House, where are you going?" No answer, just his tall figure limping away. "House. House!"

* * *

><p><strong>Back to the present<strong>

The moment he opened the door and saw Cuddy, it was clear to both of them someone had made a mistake. House, for sure, not asking who was knocking: and Cuddy too, by showing up at his place. And maybe House again, not paying attention in covering the traces of what he had done: hiding the procedures, switching names on files, creating a curtain of smoke to confuse things. His motives might have been blurred, but one reason he hadn't donate his marrow for, was Cuddy to find out. It wasn't about her, it wasn't about anybody else but him, and it was for real.

Speechless and breathless House stood there, immediately grasping on the open door looking for a steady support. Images of Cuddy standing there in front of him, a grave expression all over her face, in the very same spot on his doorstep, convulsively overlapped with the ones of the night she had come to him to break his heart, along with their relationship. And the moment he realized what she was there for, he almost wished to be still back in that moment.

"Not tonight," he said painfully, leaning on the door and closing it until she could see nothing but his face. "Not now, not tonight. Not because of this, I lost this one too anyway. He might not be dead, but I lost this patient no matter what."

Cuddy was unable to move, there was an invisible barrier between them and she couldn't push herself beyond it. Had she naively thought he might have let her, she soon found out it wasn't the case when she opened her mouth and he stole her the turn to speak. He tricked her actually; instead of saying something, House just grumbled and coughed gulping down a sob of commiseration he didn't want her to see. Then he bent his head down hiding his face from her, who could however see how intense the grip of his hand on the door was.

"I didn't…I thought I could help, and it leaded to nothing. I didn't do this to gain something Cuddy, it wasn't about me. He had a chance, I gave it to him and he didn't…I lost this one too, Cuddy. I was happy with you and I lost patients, but I was ok with it. It was a price I was ready to pay, but not this. Not being alone on drug, and still lose patients, not like this. What's the point then?" He inhaled a long breath through his teeth, suffering way more than just a physical pain no Vicodin in the world could have eased. "There is no catch, no redemption…isn't that what you meant? Well, you were right Cuddy, absolutely right. And because I didn't see it, another life have been wasted because of me. How can I believe this now?" He asked ravenously, finding the strength to look up at her out of the most intense frustration and shame he had ever felt, not eased by the creepy grimace appearing on his face and sinking Cuddy's heart in her chest. "How can I…after what just happened, how can I believe you're here for me Cuddy? You shouldn't, not because of this, not tonight. I don't deserve this tonight, I don't need this today. I can't gain something through another failure. Tomorrow-" he added then, averting his eyes but holding the door, closing it in front of her "-if you'll still be up to this, if it'll still mean something to you, to me… Tomorrow Cuddy, not tonight."

If she tried to say something again, House didn't know, because he closed the door. A few weeks before, once she had left after breaking up with him, it had taken him almost one hour to find the courage to close the door, one hour spent praying she could come back. That night, he did it gently, slowly, leaving Cuddy and himself the time to understand the meaning of it all, knowing he was probably jeopardizing everything he had fought for. After all, truth was he hadn't fought for that: he hadn't donate his marrow to get Cuddy back, he'd just wanted to give the man a chance he hadn't tapped for himself.

"Tomorrow," he repeated again, louder, leaning with his forehead on the door when he heard her move on the other side, meaning she was still there. "If it'll still matter Cuddy," he closed his eyes and sighed, his palms resting on the door almost afraid she could suddenly try to push the door open, and added in a whisper. "It can wait."


	3. Chapter 3

_So, this is the end. It was something unusual for me, which is why I kept it short. I have a feeling you may like the final outcome…_

_It is weirdly written, but try to step in Cuddy's shoes._

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><p>3<p>

I should have known better.

The moment I saw the note, I should have just stopped him…Yeah, but how? It was his call as a man, there was nothing medically wrong in the procedure for me to stop it, still-

Why did he do that? He had his diagnosis, he had his answer, why push himself to this point? He lost patients before, of course he doesn't like to…nobody does, but there was no need to step up until this point, giving so much. The patient, why was this man so important to him? Let me check the file…62 years old, married…he dumped his family 30 years ago, wife and daughter, cutting every link with them.

It still doesn't make sense, they are here with him now… Now that he's dying. Oh my God House, is that the reason? You stupid inconsiderate idiot! You donated your marrow to this son of a bitch because you feel you two are alike? Are you really this hurt and desperate?

No, I can't believe it. He's not like him, he's not…who am I trying to jerk around here? Yes, he is. This guy put his dreams and needs first, before his own family, just like House does. Isn't that why I left him? And it was the right thing to do, for me and for Rachel. I don't want to be like that woman, getting used to the lack of someone at my side. I wouldn't spend years with no words from him and then show up at his final call, unless-

I've been there after all, I'm a doctor for God's sake! I know all too well how people value their priorities when they face death, and I've been there too. I needed him, I might have needed him even more and he failed me. He couldn't do it, not even stay at my side. I saw things differently when I thought I was dying, more clearly.

What if…no, no it can't be. House has no trust in human beings, he doesn't buy last minute redemption in the point of death. Still, did he really give the patient his marrow to give him a chance? Could he really be capable of such a spontaneous and hopeful act? I don't know, I don't know what to think. Did he do that impress me? Oh c'mon, Lisa, he's right, you're so narcissistic! He gave a false name to set the procedure, he didn't even write on the file the patient needed a transplant. No, no he didn't want me to know, he thought I might have denied him the permission to do it.

What's Foreman doing here now? No…no I haven't heard of House, damn are you kidding me? We've been like ghosts to each other for weeks! What do you mean the patient is gone? What about his family, they were upstairs… Did he really just check himself out, abandoned them again? Why? What about the new chance? This new life with them he could have had, the one he regretted to waist, the one House gave him.

C'mon answer! Answer you idiot, damn it!

Why isn't Wilson checking on you? It doesn't make sense, why was Foreman the one? I've seen him been concerned for House's judgment on work, pissed at him but never like that, never so scared. Why didn't he tell me what House was up to? Why didn't he tell Wilson?

And now that jerk isn't answering the phone! Doesn't he get people are looking for him, worried for him? He wouldn't do something stupid, he wouldn't hurt himself. No, he's too attached to his life to get rid of himself, sure not because of this. Unless, of course, it's not just because of this. Answer the phone House, don't do this to me. Don't charge me with this burden. He wouldn't, he can be the worst asshole ever, but he'd never do something like this just to teach me a lesson. He wouldn't come to this point, he'd rather mock me and show me he's stronger than what I think, if anything out of pride.

Oh God, what's this noise? Does it come…yes, it's his apartment, it's him. What are you doing House, why are you doing this to yourself?

C'mon please, open the door. He won't hear me with all this crashing. Even so, what will I tell him? Damn, I should have come here with a plan. What am I going to tell him, why am I even here again? I should go, maybe it's not too late, maybe he didn't hear me knocking- Of course he did, here he comes. What am I going to tell him? I need to tell him something, he needs to hear he didn't do anything wrong at least, not this time.

House…oh my God look at you! How many pills has he taken, how bad did you hurt yourself? Have I ever seen him like this, so wounded? Yes I did, a few weeks ago. Or maybe I didn't, I didn't see it or I didn't care. I know what you're reading in my face, but I can't help it. I miss you, I miss you so much and I know I made a mistake-

Not tonight…damn it I hate when you're right! Not because of this but no, please don't say this, you didn't lose him. He'll live and maybe he'll learn something.

I need him to know, I have to tell him, let me do it House. I know House, I know it wasn't about you, about us. You'd never done this because of me, I just… Don't , please don't say that again. You didn't become a worst doctor because of me, you didn't become a crappier doctor at all. You're still the best, you'll always be the best. No, I didn't mean that…oh God, maybe I did but you proved me wrong, House. Just today you showed me once again you're always right in the end.

This? What do you mean, this? Me…it's me being here, for you, the last one you expected to see, the last one you wanted to. It's us, after what I told you, us again, back together like you want, like I'd want. Do I? I think so….but you, damn you House, and logic driving all your actions! Good things scare you, you can't understand them no matter how brilliant you are, because they're out of your schemes. Why can't you believe I'm here for you House, why can't you accept it? Of course you can't, after what I told you, after all the pain I caused you. I know what's the problem, I know you're afraid I might just be giving you an empty reward, but it's not this. What you did…what it did to you, you didn't expect it to turn the tables on you, and that's the point. My point, if you'd just let me tell you. You took a risk, it didn't work out for you but you shouldn't give up. No, it's not a failure House, you're not—

Tomorrow. Tomorrow seems so far away, I don't think I can wait. Maybe I should, though. Are you protecting me House? From you, from myself, from reiterate a bad decision and do the same mistake twice? If I'll still be up to this… You've always been good in making poignant observations. Tomorrow if…

I hate it, I hate the way it sounds, but you're right. This is not the moment, nor the way. Maybe this had been the mistake, I was too emotional the night you lost Hanna, are you…yes, you're questioning my judgment in this moment, and it's a good thing. I need to take my time, think about it, do the right thing for all the right reasons.

Don't close the door, please let me say something, let me try- what? What did he say? Tomorrow, tomorrow again, and then? I can't hear you House, louder please- if? If what? I need to know, I need to hear it now, as long as I'm still here...

Later the morning after

Bottles.

He had lost count of the bottles, all empty, he had picked up and tossed in the bin, along with the broken glasses. As the last one joined the others with a crash, he snorted at the amount of victims his self-destruction night had reaped. He had been woken up by a sudden and overwhelming retch, that had deprived him of part of his intestines, and nausea still got him at the simple smell of alcohol.

Once he had cleaned up, his head wobbling for the hangover, he ravenously moved to the kitchen and spent ten useless minutes searching fridge and pensile for food. Huffing, closing his eyes for a moment to fight back another dizzying wave of nausea, he made his way to the living room and carefully bent down to pick up his shoes. At the first step, the cut under his foot howled in pain. He fought it back and didn't take a Vicodin, his stomach wasn't strong enough for drug that morning. More than anything, he could use some coffee.

Burping back some more puke, House wore his jacket, pondering he could use a walk to get some fresh air and wake up his brain a little. He didn't feel up to drive, sure not his bike with the risk to fill the helmet with his own vomit, then picked up the keys of his car and headed to the door, opening it while his mind was busy trying to figure out the what the closest coffee shop was.

Closer than what he thought, because he found a cup of coffee inches away from his face, with Cuddy's face and hand just a little lower.

As if that paper cup of coffee had been a ticking bomb about to explode, House stepped back, his nostrils catching not the strong smell of the liquid, but the gentle perfume coming from the soft skin of her hand. Suddenly short of breath, House looked at her, puzzled, almost scared. He then looked at the cup of coffee she was so boldly offering him, terrified, shaking his head slowly as he gulped down a dry lump and tried to speak.

"No," he whispered with a low voice, the scary expression travelling from his face straight to Cuddy's one. "This is not right, it can't work, not like this...just like this-"

It was a second. It didn't last long, yet House did catch the glimpse of terror and delusion on Cuddy's face, like a dark cloud passing by and obscuring the sun on an early spring day for a moment. And he didn't know how it made him feel. Both pleased and sad actually, then his muscles betrayed him when, out of nowhere, Cuddy pulled out a box of donuts.

"Now," he added then with a teasing mutter, stepping away from the door to let her inside his place. "That's something we can work with…"

THE END


End file.
